The Werewolf
Kaunas, Lithuania, April 1911
Jokūbas Mazounas sat at his favorite table at the pub, beer in hand, and listened to the tales being told by the regulars… again. Even though it was the umpteenth repeat, no one was going to interrupt—partly out of unspoken agreement, partly out of loving those stories.
His friend Algis was weaving his story (entirely fictional, everyone knew) of an encounter with a laumė, a beautiful woodland spirit who had tried to lead him deep into the forest. This story became more elaborate each time he told it, with the laumė becoming more beautiful (and more naked) with each telling.
Jokūbas worked his way to the bar for one more beer before going home. He wasn’t in a hurry. He’d made the decision to go to America and join his older brother, who was now going by the American name of Emil. It was the right decision, but he dreaded breaking the news to his family, especially to his youngest brother, Dari.
He returned to his table with the mug of beer, and Algis came to join him. He was flushed and sweaty, maybe from his animated storytelling, maybe because he was several beers into the evening himself. Probably both.
Another friend, Kostas, stood up from a nearby table (although there really were no tables that weren’t nearby).
“The vilkacis,” he began, and was answered with a mix of jeers and applause. There weren’t any naked forest spirits in this story.